Rafferty went off, feeling more comfortable in his mind.
The word Perquisites might be made to cover a multitude of sins, but he would not have been so easy if he had known that Mrs. Driscoll had been called up immediately after his departure. Mrs. Driscoll was one of those terrible people who say nothing yet see everything; for the last year and a half she had been watching Rafferty; knowing it to be quite useless to report what she knew to her easy-going master, she had, none the less, kept on watching. As a result, she was now able to bring up a hard fact, a small hard fact more valuable than worlds of ductile evidence. Rafferty had “nicked”—it was the lady’s expression—a brand-new lawn mower.
“I declare to God, sir, I don’t know what he has took, for me eyes can’t be everywhere, but I do know he’s took the mower.”
“Why did you not tell Miss Phyl?”
“I did, sir, and she only said, ‘Oh, there must be a mistake—what would he be doin’ with it,’ says she. ‘Sellin’ it,’ says I. ‘Nonsense,’ says she. You see, sir, Rafferty and she has always been hand in glove, what with the fishin’ and shootin’, and the horses and such like, and she won’t hear a word against him.”
Mrs. Driscoll had called Rafferty a sly devil—he was.
At eleven o’clock next morning, Phyl, crossing the stable yard with some sugar for the horses, met Rafferty. He was crying.
“Why, what on earth’s the matter, Rafferty?” asked the girl.
“I’ve got the shove, miss,” replied Rafferty, “after all me years of service, I’m put out to end me days in a ditch.”
“You mean you’re discharged!” she cried. “Was it Mr. Pinckney?”